Man’s Best Friend at the End of the World

The sun rises out in the East. It’s rays are blanketing the coniferous forest that spans out pass the horizon. The animals that call the night their home, scurry back into the caverns and burrows and wait to come out to hunt and scavenge another night. A sliver of warm light at first falls on the light-gray paw of Moose. Moose is a pure bred Weimaraner.

The Weimaraner is large, lean and muscular. Descended from the now extinct Chien-Gris and Hubert Hounds. Their bodies are large enough, but not overbearing in size to be favored to both large game hunters of Boars and Deer to the smaller Fox and Rabbit hunters. Short, gray hair like brushed nickle with a long snout and ears drooping down but shorter than most other hound dogs. Their names derive from admirers wishing to be in favor of the Grand Dukes in the old Wiemar Republic. Weimaraners are strong, athletic, brave, smart and loyal. All but the last one describes Moose.

“I wish he was here.” Moose thought. “With a great big bowl of food.”

It has been two days since Moose has had anything to eat. As he rises with the rays of the sun he leaves his meager shelter, a large pile of dead leaves and pine needles nestled in a depression surrounded by full thick trees. This was the first night Moose slept outside. He curled up that night reminiscing about his Master’s couch. His Master was not a hunter nor was he athletic. Moose was house broken in the most literal of definitions. The house broke him.

In his earliest memories, Moose sees a large gray body he nestled up against to drink milk. It was warm and hairy. He heard a large heart beat and thump against him while he was nursed. His eyes haven’t grown accustomed to the bright lights hovering over him. These lights were like little suns themselves, only they didn’t provide any warmth. There was a tug on the scruff of his neck and Moose was lifted from his milk, there was no floor beneath him as he was carried into a box. His paws that were too large by comparison to his small frame struggles to find his footing. He is dropped into a small cardboard box and then nothing but blackness until….

“My master saved me from that dark. Opened the box. Turned on the light, waving his hand on the wall. How’d he turn on the big light up there?”

There was always food and water in his bowls. There were pets and scratches whenever he wanted even if he woke up his Master. He didn’t mind if Moose woke him up. It was a good life, Moose was a good boy. These last two days were the first he wasn’t told he was good.

Moose opened his eyes to the morning light out in the woods. He winced at the light, it took awhile to adjust. He smelled the air around him.

“wet...moss..wet pine needles..mud”, Moose thought.

He hobbled down to a river and drank the cool water. It purged the morning dry out of his mouth. Moose kept drinking, digging his face deeper and deeper into the river bed until his snout churned the bottom, engulfing mouth fulls of the now muddy water. His stomach filled but he was still hungry.

“Water bowl, but where’s food bowl?”

Moose laid down in a patch of grass near the river with his head laying on his paws in front of him. His stomach was growling, demanding food. He lay there, ignoring his stomach.

A doe cautiously approached the river. Moose’s eyes trained on the female deer. Her head perked up, her large eyes scanned the area around her for possible danger. Moose held himself in check, but his heart was racing in anticipation. He’s not sure exactly what he was doing. To Moose, food comes out of a big box in the room with the water pipe and the big cold box that has meat. The Master would take out the cold meat and Moose would smell it as it defrosted. The aroma of beef and pork would waft throughout the house and over power his desire for the dry round pellets in his bowl. His mouth would water. Years of begging for a piece of the Master’s meat is now replaced with the primal urge to kill this doe in front of him.

The deer lowers her head to the river. Moose, without positioning himself for a proper lunge or attempting to come closer for the kill; charges for her. Clumsy and amateur, Moose’s first attempt left him with nothing. The doe sensed danger the instant Moose’s paws left a loud crunch under the pine needles that could be heard throughout the forest. She bolted, kicking much of the small pebbles scattered on the riverside in Moose’s direction as she fled to the safety of the thick foliage. As Moose stood where his failed kill was suppose to meet her demise a deep guttural growl began to boil up from inside. Moose never growled before, because he was never angry; especially at himself.

“Bad boy”, he thought. “Stupid. Bad boy.”

As he stood by himself lamenting, Moose heard a splash close by his legs. Slowly he looked down to see a small frog sitting half submerged in the water. Frogs were a common sight when the Master took him on walks. They would go to a big water bowl not much different than the one Moose is standing near now. During that time, Moose was curious about the little hopper things. Some of them would let him bring his nose to them, he would sniff their mossy odors and the Master would call him back to not bother them. Moose wasn’t interested in smelling this one that sat near directly to him.

His head lunged straight towards the frog. His jaws wide met the cold, slime layered body with success. His mouth closed tight onto his prize and it’s body popped in his mouth filling Moose’s mouth and the surrounding water in blood. Moose thrashed his head back and forth not unlike the ropes the Master had to play with him. Moose gnashed at the now lifeless husk of his kill, breaking bones and tissue then, he swallowed it whole. His hunger not entirely satisfied but the demanding growls from his stomach was muffled by the kill. Moose licked his lips by the river.

“The food bowl is everywhere”, he thought to himself enthusiastically.

Moose stayed near the river hoping another deer would come by for a drink or to see another frog along the shore. Neither have come by him that day. Occasionally a splash along the river alerted Moose to a few lonely fish pooled in the middle. The first in a long line of Salmon ready to fight the currents to reach the place they were born to make the new generation this season.

Frustrated from the lack of another kill, Moose ventured into the middle of the river to catch the fish. The current picked his feet up off the riverbed and carried him downstream. He struggled and kicked in the water fruitlessly to reach the shore. The river’s current calmed at a shallow area, his foot touched the bottom. Moose pushed himself towards the shore. He was tired and cold from the fight in the water, he shook himself with an attempt to dry himself.

“Bad water bowl.”, he thought.

Moose looked out and paused. In front of him, pass the trees in a steep slope was an animal. It was brown with small, white spots. Like the deer that escaped him before. Moose wasn’t going to let it go again. On deep, buried instincts; he crouched down and low. Moose slowly eased his body into the brush, careful not to create noise that would alert his presence. As he sneaked his way between the trees and bushes, Moose would only lose contact with the deer for a split second. It would go behind a sapling or a fallen tree only for Moose to spot it again. He inched ever closer till he could hear the footsteps less than two meters from him. Moose hid himself behind the decaying trunk of a once large and wide pine tree that fell years before. This time, Moose crouched down ready to strike as the deer came by him and it did.

Moose came out from behind the trunk jumping in mid air ready to sink his teeth into the deer’s neck. He missed his mark and he stopped in his tracks. It wasn’t a deer.

Standing in front of Moose stood a slender, small framed Greyhound. It’s skin hung loose on it’s bones and what was left of it’s muscles. It looked gaunt as if it hadn’t eaten in a long time. Moose looked down and smelled the air around him. It was a female. What was before an urge to kill, turned to excitement. His tail started to wag in rapid succession, his tongue stuck out of mouth then he pants and whimpers. He stepped closer to her, she cautiously backs away.

“No, please. Just want to come to you.” He said to her. “I not seen another dog since I been out here.”

“Me neither.” The greyhound said. “You’re not wolf?”

Moose began to prance about her with newfound energy like he received a new toy.

“No!” he exclaimed. “I’m good boy. My master said so. I’m not a..what you name me? Rolf? I can rolf if you want. I can rolf real good.”

Moose began to belt out playful barks at the greyhound. “Rolf Rolf Rolf!” He became lost in his excitement, running back and forth around her, kicking up moss and dirt with each turn back in the opposite direction. The greyhound returned his display and joined in the playful chase up and down the slope, between trees and brush ending back to where they first met each of them panting. Their tongues dangling out trying to catch their breath.

“Where’s your master?” she asked. Moose stopped, “I...I don’t know. The Whitecoats took him.”

“Whitecoats?” she looked at him inquisitively, her head tilting.

Moose winced trying to remember. “They came in the big wheel box with little colored suns on top. Sometimes they have a bird whine real loud. Lot of them were around us. They took a lot of masters away. Some tried to grab me too, I ran.” Moose looked sullenly at his new friend. “You know where the whitecoats took him?”

The greyhound shook her head and body like she was drying herself off after swimming. “No.” She said, “Can you help me with my Master? He’s hurt.” Moose sprang to attention. “Your master’s here? Yes I can help!”

The greyhound ran up the slope, without saying a word. Moose struggled to keep up with his new friend, racing past rows upon rows of brush and foliage. The sun was setting, creating a hue of a lesser saturated vision to himself. He never lost her even if it felt to him he would, she was fast despite her malnourished look. Moose’s legs ached from the effort but he made it to the base of a slate cliff. He looked up, it towered over them. He brought his vision back down and saw a man lying on the ground. He was wearing a bright orange vest. He slowly walked towards him. Moose was alert and cautious. His heart, racing. The man wasn’t moving. He didn’t pay attention to the greyhound as he crept closer. There was a foul smell emanating from him. It clogged his nose and blocked his other senses.

His skin, now that Moose can see; has turned a gray shade. His hands, what were left of them as skeletal fingers with scraps of meat and cartilage embedded between the joints are dangling around a rusted rifle. Moose stopped and sat down. He looked around for his friend. She was gone. Moose didn’t hear her leave and couldn’t imagine why she would leave her master.

‘I left mine. We’re both bad boys.’, he thought to himself.

His master wasn’t the first that the whitecoats came for that day. There were many in the big boxes. Some smelled like the master in front of him now, others smelled of vomit and old feet. His master fell to the floor and shook. Moose thought it was a game until his master whimpered and then stopped moving all together. Moose stayed by him. Other dogs in the neighborhood that lost their masters that night howled in confusion. Another dog joined in. Cats started to mew and scratched at the windows to be let out. Birds squawked out words for help. Other dogs howled while some barked and pounded at doors, chewing the screens off windows. It was a cacophony of sorrow belted outward through the walls and streets.

Moose was sitting near this new master. He heard a thin, phantom howl next to him; it’s cry echoed in the woods. He couldn’t see who was with him. Moose lifted his head to the sky and joined it’s lonely wheep.

Thunder roared in response and clouds ate the last remaining light that was left. The rain poured in torrential heaps. The cold assaulted Moose and snapped him out of his chorus. It was dark, he couldn’t see. Lightening came and lit up his surroundings, the shadows showed a concave form to his left. He didn’t move, waiting in anticipation for the next light to show him. It came, showing the mouth of a cave. Moose raced towards it, to get out of the rain.

Inside, Moose shook himself to dry off. He was cold and shivering. He curled up into a ball to try to stay warm. Despite the echoing effect of the rain outside, Moose heard the patter of four little legs behind him.

‘If it’s those Rolfs she told about, let them have me.’ he thought.

Moose imagined great, big monsters. Large claws to tear him up and sharp fangs that will turn him like the frog he ate before, a small morsel for a humongous beast. He lay still as the patter came to him, expecting a gutteral roar that would fill head and being the last thing he would ever hear. Only, a high-voiced, chirping voice; muffled by something in it’s mouth sounded off behind him.

“Wha? Eh nother one o yous’?” Moose turned to see a small fox with a dead rabbit dangling from it’s mouth. It lay on the opposite side of the cave to him, gnawing and eating at it’s kill. “Las’ one o you doggos came with that feller ova thar.” The fox was pointing where the man lay, though it was hard to see in the storm outside. The fox continued. “Course, ain’t see har in dam near o month.”

Moose looked over at the fox, digging his snout into the flesh. He imagined if the fox may have taken a bite out of the master outside. Without realizing he was speaking his thoughts out loud, Moose said with sorrow in his voice, “Did you?”. The fox looked at him in confusion.

“Did I wah? Take a bie out that feller? Nah, doggo. Somethin’ wron wit that meat. Othars takin bies out, they ain’t wit us no mo. I got my kill. Hare ya go.” He tossed Moose a small piece of rabbit, he didn’t realize how hungry he was. Moose didn’t chew his piece he swallowed it by itself, he sniffed eagerly at the ground where the piece was before.

“Ungry ain’t you.” The fox said teasingly. He tosses a larger chunk to him. Moose graciously accepts.

“Thanks” he said to the fox, “You’re a good boy.” The fox laughed.

“That’s tha first I eard that. You aright doggo.”

“Moose, I’m Moose.” The fox laughed louder and harder than before. Moose didn’t understand why.

“Well yous the uglist Moose this sie of,” he paused for thought “This sie of, well eva I reckon. Thats aright. Yous alone lie ole Tod hare.”

“I am.”, This was the first Moose ever said these words out loud. There was a long pause between them. It made those words carry on longer inside him. He was in fact alone. Tod, the fox broke the silence.

“Le me ass yous somthin. You eva kill bfore?”

“Yes.” replied Moose. “A frog.”

Tod tried to hold back a snicker, he was failing. “Not ba for a doggo.”

“I tried a deer.” Moose retorted quickly in defense.

“Bye yerself?” ask Tod

“Yes.” Moose sullenly told him.

“Well thats why yer failed. If I’m feedin fer two we gotta kill mare than ole rabbits.”

Moose’s ears perked and he grew excited. “We?”

“O course. Winta’s comin an good boys gotta stik togetha, right?”

Moose’s tail began to thump against the ground as it wagged. “Good boys stick together.” he said in agreement. He then lowered his head back down, closed his eyes and calmly, with affection said goodnight to Tod.

Tod lowered his head as well; closing his eyes he said, “G’nigh, doggo.”